Hugh went to his room, and washed his face and hands. Before doing so, he pulled off his finger a ring of considerable value, which had belonged to his father. As he was leaving the room to return to the company, he remembered that he had left the ring on the washhand-stand. He generally left it there at night; but now he bethought himself that, as he was not going to sleep in the room, it might be as well to place it in the escritoire. He opened the secret place, and laid the diamond beside his poems and the crystal ring belonging to Mr. Arnold. This done, he took up his book again, and, returning to the drawing-room, found the whole party prepared to accompany him. Mr. Arnold had the keys. Von Funkelstein and he went first, and Hugh followed with Euphra. “We will not contribute to your discomfiture by locking the doors on the way, Mr. Sutherland,” said Mr. Arnold. “That is, you will not compel me to win the wager in spite of my fears,” said Hugh. “But you will let the ghost loose on the household,” said the Bohemian, laughing. “I will be responsible for that,” replied Mr. Arnold. Euphra dropped a little behind with Hugh. “Remember the secret passage,” said she. “You can get out when you will, whether they lock the door, or not. Don’t carry it too far, Hugh.” “The ghost you mean, Euphra.—I don’t think I shall,” said Hugh, laughing. But as he laughed, an involuntary shudder passed through him. “Have I stepped over my own grave?” thought he. They reached the room, and entered. Hugh would have begged them to lock him in, had he not felt that his knowledge of the secret door, would, although he intended no use of it, render such a proposal dishonourable. They gave him the key of the door, to lock it on the inside, and bade him good night. They were just leaving him, when Hugh on whom a new light had broken at last, in the gradual restoration of his faculties, said to the Bohemian: “One word with you, Herr von Funkelstein, if you please.” Funkelstein followed him into the room; when Hugh half-closing the door, said: “I trust to your sympathy, as gentleman, not to misunderstand me. I wagered a hundred guineas with you in the heat of after-dinner talk. I am not at present worth a hundred shillings.” “Oh!” began Funkelstein, with a sneer, “if you wish to get off on that ground—” “Herr von Funkelstein,” interrupted Hugh, in a very decided tone, “I pointed to your sympathy as a gentleman, as the ground on which I had hoped to meet you now. If you have difficulty in finding that ground, another may be found to-morrow without much seeking.”